


Game On

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, Drinking Games, F/M, Fluff, PWP, Sexual Tension, Smut, Sports, Teasing, the usual with these two really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Bellamy get stranded in the apartment after Octavia is unexpectedly called into work. With a fridge stocked full of alcohol and a basketball game on TV, they decide to play a game of their own. Things progress rather quickly from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game On

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is with me and these two drinking/stripping but it seems to have become a running theme. oh well XD also, the timing somehow collided with the actual NCAA game tonight, which was just a happy coincidence haha. hope you enjoy!

Clarke can’t decide whether to kill or thank Octavia for leaving her alone in their apartment with Bellamy. 

It’s the _one_ evening she promised they’d all three hang out and get happy drunk so she didn’t have to think about visiting her mother in two days, and she’s been looking forward to it all week. The two siblings always manage to distract her - though tonight, she’s beginning to wonder if that’s a good thing.

In any other situation, she might have accused Octavia of faking the emergency just to get them alone - seeing as the girl has a history of trying to set up Clarke with anyone, but _especially_ her big brother - except that Octavia’s panicked expression after her manager’s phone call has them both practically shoving her out the door. Sad as she is to see her go, she’s not about to let her friend lose her job over this.

Although, if she _is_ acting, she deserves a freaking Oscar.

Thankfully their fridge is stocked with alcohol, and so she’s slurping down the rum and coke from a tall glass before Bellamy has even finished cracking open the first bottle of beer. Her muscles loosen up just a little and she relaxes further into the couch cushions, curling her legs under her and pulling the hem of her shirt further down over her tiny blue sleep shorts.

Of course, it’s a battle to figure out what to watch at first. Bellamy stubbornly _refuses_ to watch the masterpiece that is Pride and Prejudice, in direct contradiction with his statement that he appreciates good literature - a likely story, Clarke thinks - and she in turn absolutely will not watch another documentary that require subtitles because she is not in the mood at all--

“Wait wait wait!” Clarke reaches across the couch for the remote, only to glare when Bellamy holds it higher out of reach. “Come on, you just skipped something good,” she protests.

“I hardly think Lifetime counts as-”

“Not that,” she nearly growls. “I have fucking standards, you know.” At his grin, she practically hisses and sits back, brushing hair from her face. “Basketball, you moron. It’s the NCAA final four game.”

Bellamy's eyes light up. And so they both settle in to watch the second-to-last showdown of March Madness between Kentucky and Wisconsin. Clarke perks up when she notices the game has just started; he doesn’t miss that. When his eyes linger on her for longer than a minute - okay, so maybe she likes it, but hell if she’s admitting that - she squirms in her seat and glances over.

“What? Do I have Cheetos in my teeth?” 

“No,” he chuckles. “I was just thinking… I never knew you were such a fan,” he admits. “I mean, I’ve known you since what, sophomore year of college, and yet somehow I didn’t know this…” He trails off, shrugging. “It’s just strange, that’s all.”

Because he sounds a little put out by it, she answers honestly. “I watched every Final Four with my dad when I was in high school,” she explains. “It was kind of our thing before I left.” There’s the usual pang of sadness, but it’s quickly overtaken by the happier memories this time. Bellamy nods in understanding, settling a large hand on her knee for a moment in silence. He’s good like that, knowing when words aren’t needed. She gulps down more of her drink.

His voice is much lighter when he speaks again. “I bet you were _such_ a sore loser, princess.” She pouts instantly, slapping his hand away when he reaches up to tweak her nose. So he pokes her side instead, resulting in an undignified squeak that makes him laugh.

“My team always wins,” Clarke informs him haughtily, and his eyebrows lift in challenge.

“You don’t say? Tell me, who are you rooting for this time then?”

“Wisconsin,” she replies automatically. Bellamy covers his face and clucks in sympathy.

“You poor thing.”

She shoves him hard enough that he nearly spills his beer on the arm of the couch. Not that anyone could tell, seeing as the thing is a deep brown that perfectly hides most stains - very necessary, with the klutz that she is. “Screw you. We’re totally going to win. Great defense, great perimeter shooting-”

“We have both, and a hell of a lot more depth on offense,” he interrupts. “You’ve got what, two guys who can attack the rim, maybe three if they’re really having a good day?”

“Please. All Kentucky has is fried chicken.” Clarke tucks her hands into her armpits and squawks. Loudly.

Bellamy’s nostrils flare, though the sparkle in his eyes tells her he’s enjoying this. He takes a long swig of his beer and she does her best not to eye the tanned column of his neck. “What does Wisconsin have?” He sneers. “Cheese?”

“Cheese is better than chicken,” she answers with a shrug.

He gapes. “In what universe?”

“There are like, thirty types of cheese,” she argues. Okay, so maybe that's not the right number, but... “How many types of chicken are there?”

“Unbelievable.” Bellamy shakes his head, resigned. “You’re almost as bad as O’s ‘vegetarian’ phase.” He makes sarcastic air quotes that send her into a bout of giggles.

“Oh god,” she remembers, “that was the worst, wasn’t it? It’s not so hard to be a vegetarian, I mean we live in the city for crying out loud, but she doesn’t like vegetables!” Clarke laughs and leans closer. “Literally, all I saw her eat was pasta. I’ve never seen so many carbs in my life. Not that I care about that shit at all, but _good god._ Even I was sick of the sauce smell after that.”

“You think that’s bad?” Bellamy sets his beer on the table with a thump. “I had to learn to make veggie lasagna for her when she visited, and then _after she got there_ she had the audacity to tell me she’s dropped off the wagon!”

Clarke grins, taking another chug of her rum and coke. “To be fair, your lasagna is delicious, so I think that was a win for everyone involved.”

He smiles then, a quick flash of teeth and crinkle of his eyes, and she knows he’s pleased. Warmth shoots straight down to her toes. She loves his genuine smile, the one that takes more effort to be seen but is well worth the wait.

They’re silent for a couple minutes, each fiddling with their drinks, until Bellamy clears his throat.

“What do you say we make this interesting, princess?”

Intrigued, she raises an eyebrow. He grins, and oh, this is his _fun_ smile, the one that sets his eyes twinkling and makes her a little weak in the knees because whatever comes next is never fails to disappoint.

“They’re playing a game,” Bellamy says, “so why shouldn’t we?”

 _Oh, yes._ Clarke nods, maybe a little too eagerly, but she covers it by getting up to refill her glass. “What’d you have in mind?” She asks, digging through the fridge.

“Just a couple simple rules. One, take a sip every time a foul is called on our team - yours being Wisconsin, mine being Kentucky. Two, take a shot every time your team makes a three-point shot.”

She’s nodding as she pulls out the bottle of rum, it all sounds perfectly reasonable, and she’s a great drinker so--

“Three, lose one item of clothing for every missed free throw by your team.”

Clarke nearly drops the bottle. It clinks against the floor as she grabs it by the neck at the last second - not graceful, but hey, at least she’s not cleaning up broken glass. Her limbs tingle as Bellamy’s words take root. Heat creeps up her neck and into her cheeks as she finally looks up to find Bellamy watching her, eyebrow raised in challenge.

_Oh, it’s so on._

Casually, she leans against the island in the kitchen. “Just one question. What are we taking shots of?”

His face splits into a wide grin as he realizes she’s agreeing. Draining his beer in one gulp, he hops up and strides over to the fridge. “Depends, what’ve you got?” She forces herself to breathe and pour with a steady hand while he rummages around.

“Seriously, schnapps?” Bellamy’s voice is muffled. “Who even buys schnapps anymore?”

Clarke hits him absentmindedly. “Shut up, they were peppermint and on sale and they’re delicious. In fact, give me the bottle. That’s my choice of shot. You do whatever you want.”

“Fine by me.” He hands it over, taking the bottle of whiskey for himself.

They settle back on the couch with their choice of poisons, as it were, laid out on the table. Her body is humming in anticipation, because she’s still a little in disbelief that they’re about to do this, actually do this. _It’s just a game,_ she reminds herself. But when her eyes slide to Bellamy, it’s hard to believe it. 

She realizes what a bad idea it was to agree to shots on three pointers when Dekker sinks his fourth and there’s still seven minutes left to go in the first half alone. She should have known better, seeing as Octavia was totally crushing on “that blonde hottie” the entire way through the tournament - on the rare occasions Clarke actually got her to agree to watch. 

(“He can sink my three-pointer any day,” Octavia giggled. 

“O, I’m not even going to pretend I understand that one. Do _you_ even know what that means?”)

Then the thought strikes her that Bellamy knows all too well just how capable her team is of three pointers, and _that asshole, he made that rule on purpose, he knew--_

Dekker sinks a fifth. “Holy shit,” she groans, reaching for the schnapps once more. “I’m going to be through the bottle before halftime at this rate.”

“Why are you complaining? You guys are winning.” 

Wisconsin chooses that moment to foul a Kentucky player. “Fuck you Kaminsky, stop fouling,” she yells, and Bellamy laughs as she downs the shot, then reaches to take a sip of her other drink. Rules are rules.

“Honestly, I’m a little impressed you still know their names,” he chuckles, and he _does_ sound impressed and yeah it makes her sit a little straighter and lift her chin.

“Shut up. You know I can take my alcohol like a champ. I’m not that far gone.” _Just far enough that I’m wondering if those annoyingly cute freckles make an appearance on your _other_ cheeks…_

“Clarke?”

“Hmm?” She jumps, blushing at Bellamy’s stare. “Sorry, repeat that?’ She asks meekly. Her eyes dart to the floor, not noticing how his mouth flickers at the corners.

“Not that far gone, huh champ?” Bellamy teases, bumping her shoulder. She sticks out her tongue. “I said, he just missed his free throw.”

“What? Who?” Her head snaps to the TV to see a Wisconsin player at the free throw line. _Oh my god. Here we go._

Because she’s still a little apprehensive - and also giving him time to back out, or for the universe to intervene and remind her this is a bad idea - Clarke reaches down and peels off her bright red socks first. “You didn’t specify which clothes,” she says innocently.

But Bellamy only rolls his eyes and shrugs, unconcerned. “Whatever you say, princess.” His smile is almost feral, and it takes her a good two minutes before saliva reenters her mouth.

There’s no denying it when the next free throw is missed, and she grumbles - because they’re _losing_ now, idiots - and after a moment of thought, stands and strips off her shorts. She hopes she’s not imagining the slight intake of breath she hears behind her, but refuses to look. Ducking her head, she curls back onto the couch, knees curled to her chest, because hell if she’s opening her legs and showing off the damp spot on her blue panties that’s been there since they started this damn game.

Her bare skin prickles with goosebumps, so she reaches for her glass again only to find it empty. 

“Want a refill?” Bellamy’s voice is incredibly low. She nods, trying not to let him see how hard she’s pressing her legs together. Through her lashes, she watches him wander to the kitchen to make her drink. The sight of him behind the counter makes her grin. He looks up, catching her gaze.

“You always looked so at home behind the bar,” she teases, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess because I was. It was comforting, in a weird way. Mixing drinks, learning all those recipes.” He shrugs. “It was nice to have something so different from school, I guess.”

She’s nodding when her eyes drift back to the screen, and she sits up with a shout. “Ha!” She points at him gleefully. “Shirt off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kentucky missed a free throw. Shirt off,” she repeats.

Bellamy rounds the counter and sets their drinks down, an amused look on his face. “I thought we didn’t get to specify which clothes get removed,” he says, and Clarke’s face burns hotly as she realizes she just gave away her thoughts.

He grins, boyish and ridiculously charming, before his hands go to the back of his neck and he’s pulling off his shirt in that way that boys do - it’s never been so attractive to her until now. With his hair all mussed up and his sculpted torso on display, he sits back down.

She takes one too many sips in an effort to cool down her body, trying desperately to keep her eyes on the game and not let them roam over the chords of muscle in his arms, the sharp lines of his abdomen, the narrow hipbones that disappear into his waistband--

 _Fuck fuck fuck._ Clarke sets down her drink and pulls her legs up to her chest again, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her knees. She’s so focused on not revealing more of her jumbled thoughts that she doesn’t notice his eyes tracing their own searing path over her body, though she certainly thinks she feels far too hot for being only half-clothed.

They make it to halftime without losing any more clothes, and neither one seems sure of whether that’s good or bad.

“Hey, you wanna order pizza?” Bellamy asks suddenly.

She smiles, relieved. “Great idea. Extra jalapeños.” 

“Fine, but we get olives too.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just picks up his phone and dials. While he gives the order, she studies him from the corner of her eye, how his messy curls fall over his forehead and his dark eyelashes are thick and full enough to make any girl envious. Her fingers itch for a pen, pencil, charcoal - anything, just so she can draw the gorgeous outline of him. Being Bellamy, he can never sit still long enough for her to do more than that. Then he’s ending the call and glancing over just as her eyes flick away. “Should be here in fifteen,” he says.

“Okay.” Swallowing thickly, she makes herself get a grip and turns to him, determined to make normal conversation. Only her eyes end up catching on the thin jagged line that bisects his shoulder blade instead. Without thinking, her hand drifts over it. “I didn’t know you still had this,” she murmurs.

His muscles flex under her fingers as he shrugs. “Just a scar now. Doesn’t hurt or anything.”

She still remembers that night, when she and Octavia had gone to the bar he worked at because they just wanted to have a good time. Instead, they’d gotten hit on - multiple times - by the frat boys that had chosen that night to bar hop. One got a little too handsy with Octavia, and that was pretty much all it took for Bellamy to hop the counter and lay him out. Unfortunately, the rest of his buddies were a little too eager to return the favor. The thought of the broken bottle that slashed his shoulder still makes her shake - in fear, and rage.

When Bellamy says her name, she snaps out of her thoughts and retracts her arm quickly. “Sorry. I just… I usually never see it, so I didn’t know.”

He nods and sends a small smile her way before his own gaze travels over her legs. Curiously, he brushes over the circular spot on her left foot. “What’s this?”

It takes her a moment to remember how to speak, or think, with the way sparks are flying through her body at his light touch. “Blister,” she finally gets out. “When I was little, I was running around the house and dad had left a cup of hot tea on the floor in his studio. I knocked it over, spilled it on my foot.”

Bellamy hisses sympathetically. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember much of it. If that mark wasn’t there I probably wouldn’t even know the story honestly.”

“Sounds familiar. O has a few of those too,” he grins, and she grins right back.

She’s just started counting the freckles on his cheeks when a blast of music from the TV makes them both jump and spring back. Halftime’s over. Soon after, his phone goes off to signal the pizza delivery, and Clarke looks at him expectantly. “You’re gonna have to buzz him in.”

He does so, but when he returns, there’s a grin curling his mouth, slow and devious enough to make her pulse trip over itself. “Tell you what, princess. I’ll pay for the pizza and give you 20 bucks if you answer the door with me, just like this,” he says.

Clarke stares dumbly, mouth hanging open. The knock at her door makes her flinch, but she doesn’t move otherwise. Bellamy only shrugs. “Your loss,” he drawls, heading down the hall.

It takes only a moment to make up her mind. As Bellamy opens the door and takes the pizza in hand, she shuffles up behind him and hooks her finger into his belt loops. “That smells delicious,” she sighs over his shoulder, trying to ignore the warmth emanating from his body. The delivery boy simply gawks and takes the money blankly. She gives a cheery wave and shuts the door, trying not to giggle at his jaw hanging open. 

Bellamy makes it approximately three seconds before bursting into laughter, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “Damn, princess,” he grins and hugs her close. “You’re the best.”

“I should get thirty for that,” she replies, but leans into him anyways as they walk back into the living room. 

“Nice try.” He wags a finger at her. “Now, if you’d given me a kiss or something maybe I’d negotiate, but…”

She shoves him aside as he laughs, purposely taking the slices of pizza with extra olives even though she knows they’ll probably end up on his plate anyways after she picks them off. They’ve both made it through two slices and she’s reaching for her third when another foul shot clanks off the rim of the basket. Wisconsin’s.

Clarke gulps. Setting down her empty plate, she takes a deep breath. Her hands go to the hem of her shirt and pull it off, leaving her in a white and blue striped bra that’s trimmed with a hint of lace atop the cups. An impulse buy that she’s now alternately regretting and grateful for - her brain can’t decide which. 

She grabs another slice of pizza, willing her eyes to stay on the television. Her whole body tingles, and she knows there’s redness stamped across her chest and her cheeks are likely mottled beyond saving. But a minute later when Bellamy shifts in his seat, she can’t help but sneak a glance, and - _oh._ Though he’s still slouching, his pants are clearly tented, and Clarke gets a small thrill at the thought that she’s the reason.

That thrill quickly fades into nervous anticipation when Kentucky misses their shot, and she bites her lip as Bellamy shucks off his jeans, leaving him in black briefs that mold to the curve of his ass as he sits down again. She’s pretty sure they’ve both stopped breathing at this point, hyperaware of every movement the other makes. 

She’s terrified and exhilarated all at once.

When they’re at the eight-minute mark, Kaminsky goes to the free throw line for Wisconsin. She nearly tears her bottom lip to shreds when the ball circles the rim for what feels like forever, then finally drops in. A sigh escapes both her and Bellamy, though whether it’s longing or despairing, she’s not sure.

The second shot arcs through the air, and she’s ready to relax and watch the ball swoosh through the net, except - it doesn’t. 

With a loud clank, it bounces off and hits the floor.

Her heart thuds wildly. _Holy shit. This is it. This is it this is it--_ She forces herself to breathe, for her lungs to remember how to work, and somewhat succeeds. It’s still another few seconds before she can gather the courage to move. Then Bellamy’s hand covers hers on the couch, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. Her eyes snap to his - they’re impossibly dark, pupils already blown wide, and he’s making absolutely no secret of what he wants at this point. 

“Your move, Clarke,” is what he says, though. 

A strange feeling seeps into her veins as she realizes - he’s giving her an out. He’s letting her choose, because even for all their playing and teasing and bragging, he’s still Bellamy, and he sees right through her nonchalant guise to the crux of her nervousness. So he’s giving her all the facts, putting aside whatever he might want, and letting her come to a decision on her own. 

Add gentleman to the list of reasons she’s crazy about this idiot.

Clarke doesn’t realize she’s smiling until Bellamy mirrors it with a tentative one of his own. With far more confidence than she actually feels, she swings a leg over him and straddles his lap. His hands automatically fly to her waist but he makes no other move even though she can feel his hardness right where it aches the most.

Without breaking their gaze, she puts her hand over one of his, then slides it up until it touches the edge of her bra. “Maybe you want to help me?” She asks shyly.

“God, yes,” Bellamy rasps, and then he’s surging up at the same time she leans down, their mouths colliding. She makes a noise in the back of her throat at the contact, curling her arms around his shoulders to get closer. Their mouths slide together warmly, all their pent-up feelings pouring out in a mutual agreement to not hold anything back. He licks at the seam of her lips and she opens immediately, their tongues meeting in a heated battle, both desperate for more. 

Unconsciously, she rocks against him and feels him groan, his hands suddenly busy relieving her of her bra. She has to let go of him to yank it off, but when she goes back in for another kiss her breasts brush his chest and she gasps at the shock that runs through her body. 

Bellamy’s teeth close around her lower lip, applying gentle pressure until she whimpers and drags his head up for a proper kiss. When he palms her breasts, fingers swiping teasingly over her nipples, she sighs his name and Bellamy loses any remaining restraint. His mouth leaves hers to suck a trail down her neck before lowering to mark her chest, and the graze of his hair along her skin dizzies her mind like no other. Then he takes a nipple into his warm mouth and her fingers dig grooves into his shoulders as he licks and sucks and _oh fuck, nibbles_. 

“Bellamy,” she moans. “Please-”

Clarke’s not even sure what she’s asking, but he only pulls her more firmly against him with an agreeable hum. Her hips grind down over his erection in time to his mouth on her breasts, and she’s just decided that she _really_ likes this position when Bellamy grunts and his grip tightens. Without warning, he stands. 

She shrieks in surprise and clings to him, arms and legs wrapped around him like a bow, and he laughs against her skin. In rebuke she sinks her teeth into his shoulder, satisfied when a groan rumbles through his chest. She’s expecting it to take a little longer to reach her bedroom, so when her backside touches the cool tile of the countertop she can’t stop her shudder, because _oh, god, that’s such a better choice,_ and Bellamy’s laughing again so she must be saying this shit out loud but she doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t stop.

“No chance of that, princess,” he murmurs, a low rumble against her ear, and _shit,_ she really needs to stop voicing all her thoughts.

Gently, he pushes her to lie back on the small island, and when she looks up through hooded eyes she finds his gaze burning across her body, finally stopping at her panties. She should be embarrassed, because they’re soaked and it’s definitely all his fault, but with the way Bellamy’s looking at her, it’s hard to feel much else besides how much she _wants._

His fingers drag down over the wet material and her back curves off the counter. “Bellamy,” she whimpers again, because it’s all she can seem to get out, but that seems to be enough for him.

“Shit, Clarke.” His forehead rests atop her stomach for a moment, and she feels a gentle kiss over her skin before he moves lower.

Bellamy pulls her underwear off and spreads her legs, hands firm where they hold her thighs apart. Then he leans in takes a treacherously slow lick up her folds, and she bucks uncontrollably, her moan echoing off the walls. He curses against her flesh and buries his head between her thighs. When her hands tangle into his hair to hold him there and he hums, she thinks maybe she grabbed too hard, but when her fingers start to loosen he only guides them back. Her head knocks back against the counter as she adds that to the list of things he likes. The first, apparently, being the sound of his name on her lips.

Which, she’s currently chanting like a mantra as his tongue swirls over her cunt, relentless and _way too talented_ but before she can worry about voicing the thought, his mouth closes over her clit and sucks, and she’s gone, completely drowning in blissful relief, and all she can do is ride the wave that overtakes her limbs. 

She finally cracks her eyes open to the feel of Bellamy’s tousled curls brushing over her stomach as he places featherlight kisses on her sweat-damp skin. Her fingers stroke over the arch of his cheekbone, the cleft in his chin, the full line of his swollen mouth, and more as he moves further upwards.

“You’re beautiful,” she says softly.

“I thought that was my line,” Bellamy whispers back.

When she giggles, he smiles and kisses her, and her muscles clench again as she tastes herself on his lips. His arms surround her, bring her to a seated position. Her mouth wanders over his jaw, the curve of his neck, the flat planes of his chest. When her hand rubs over the thick length in his briefs, Bellamy pushes into her grip with a harsh sigh that sounds a lot like her name. She increases the pressure - _yes, it’s definitely her name_ \- until he swears under his breath and bites down on her pulse.

“What do you want, Clarke?” He asks, looking as wrecked as she feels.

“I… I want to be on top,” she breathes. Bellamy’s eyes close for a moment as he sucks in a breath, fingers digging into her hip.

“Of course you do,” he finally mutters, though if the length pressing against her hand is any indication, he’s more than okay with that. Then he says, “I don’t think the counter’s going to work for that though.”

Clarke slides off the counter and threads her fingers through his hair, stretching up for a kiss. Their mouths locked, she walks them backwards, halfheartedly apologizing against his lips when his calf encounters a stool and then the coffee table, but finally he’s sitting on the couch and she’s crawling over him, straddling his lap again and firmly grasping the cushions behind his head.

“Fuck,” Bellamy exhales hoarsely, his hands drifting lower until they’re cupping her ass, kneading the soft flesh. When she whimpers her agreement, he smirks. “You like that?” He asks roughly, and she nods helplessly, licking the shell of his ear. A ragged moan is wrenched from her mouth seconds later as the thick head of his cock rubs up against her core.

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s soft whisper makes her pull back to meet his eyes. “I- I don’t have any, uh-”

She covers the rest of his words with her mouth for a moment. “I’m on the pill,” she says after. “And there isn’t… I’m not…” She swallows and smiles. “It’s only you, Bell.”

His answering smile is blinding. “Only you,” he agrees. 

Carefully, Clarke rises until they’re aligned and his hands wrap around her ribcage, lowering her onto him slowly. She tries to keep her eyes from rolling back into her skull but in the process loses any finesse and sinks down completely. 

“Clarke, shit-” Bellamy groans and gives her a messy kiss. His hands squeeze her ass, and they settle into a quick rhythm, the slap of flesh only echoed by the soft mewls that she can’t quite contain.

“Come on, come on,” she begs, sliding down harder at the sound of Bellamy panting against her neck. 

He takes a nipple into his mouth again, sucking the hard bud, and it sends a jolt straight to her center that makes her keen and twist her fingers into his curls. Bellamy’s hips jerk more rapidly in response, and he soon leans up to swallow her moans with a deep kiss. Clarke comes with a stilted cry when his hand finds her clit, and he follows just moments later, burying his face into the crook of her neck as she slumps over him, unwilling to let go pretty much ever.

He laughs softly when she refuses to unwrap herself, and tilts them so they’re lying sideways on the couch. She hums contentedly as his hands lightly stroke along her back, her head tucked beneath his chin and legs tangled together.

“I have been wanting to do that for far too long,” Bellamy says, and she smiles up at him happily, stretching just a bit so she can finally trace the divot in his chin she loves so much. He grins and begins to pepper kisses to her fingertips until she giggles. 

Then his gaze drifts over her shoulder. “Shit,” he says suddenly, raising his head. “The game went to overtime.”

“What!” Clarke turns in his grip to watch, nestling back against him and smiling to herself when she feels him twitch in reply. Much more of that later, she thinks. Though, it’s not that much later when he makes her come again, this time around the fingers he has crooked inside her, unimaginable things tripping from his mouth into her ear. 

When she gets cold, she gropes blindly around on the floor and happily comes up with his shirt, to which Bellamy has no complaint. She’s not sure when she falls asleep, only knowing that she wakes in his arms, and _that_ is something she could get used to.

Then he tells her that Wisconsin won the game. She almost doesn’t believe him until he points to the TV, now on mute, and when she reads the ticker on the bottom of the screen, she does a victory dance in the living room still wearing only his shirt. 

“It’s just the Final Four, not the championship,” Bellamy says, or tries to, but his raucous laughter gets in the way of most of it. Clarke realizes its the ridiculous dance that’s got him all crinkly-eyed and merry, so she makes her hips sway even more wildly, wanting to prolong the moment as long as possible. 

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” she sings, waving her arms and tossing her hair like a fool. Bellamy throws his head back and laughs even harder, and she shakes and shimmies, letting the giddy feeling overtake her. Several minutes later, Bellamy finally recovers enough to drag her back to the couch, capturing her whoops with his mouth and sliding inside her even as they're both still laughing. Though, he makes sure it's not long before all she can utter is his name again.

“I still won,” she says afterwards, smug as shit because she knows she can be, and she means it in more way than one.

Bellamy smiles and kisses her again. “So did I.”

~~~~~~~~~~

They’re still on the couch when Octavia returns later, but in between Bellamy’s low words in her ear and her own dazed mind they don’t hear the door until it’s too late.

 _”My eyes!”_

Octavia screams and runs from the room. “Jesus!” Her shriek echoes down the hall. “There is not enough soap in the world for me to un-see that!” 

They stare at each other in shock as Bellamy turns a shade of red Clarke hadn’t even known was possible. She laughs and laughs until her sides ache, then finally stands to tug on her underwear while Bellamy pulls on his pants, and they proceed to buy Octavia copious amounts of chili cheese fries - her favorite meal - and rent a rom-com - 10 Things I Hate About You, naturally - to lure her out of her room.

She finally gives in, still grumbling under her breath about _why they couldn’t have bothered with a blanket_ or _used Clarke’s bed, it’s there for a reason_ but then Clarke breaks out the big guns - hot fudge and marshmallows and sprinkles over a tub of banana split ice cream, and ever so slowly they’re on the path to forgiveness.

That is, until she walks into her room later that night to find Bellamy holding the container of fudge in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other, that full mouth curled in a devilish smirk, and all of her senses fly into overdrive.

She’s definitely going to have to buy Octavia a pair of headphones - probably those ridiculously expensive red Beats she’s been eyeing for months now. Along with a lifetime’s supply of all the chocolate known to man.

And she’s not even sorry about it.


End file.
